


Hunting Redemption

by Amira_Roselle



Series: Arrow in the Dark [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Clintasha - Freeform, Developing Relationship, F/M, Flashbacks, Pre-Avengers (2012), Pre-Canon, Redemption, SHIELD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-10-11 23:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10476489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amira_Roselle/pseuds/Amira_Roselle
Summary: When Natasha Romanoff vanishes from SHIELD's radar, Clint Barton is the only agent who has a single clue to where she's gone and what she plans to do. Weighed down by the unknowns of their complicated relationship, Clint is thrust back into another hunt to find her. Only this time he's not hunting to kill her. He's hunting for something else . . . something neither he nor Natasha has ever fully recovered. Pre-Avengers.





	1. DISORDERED

Risks—chances.

Will this work? Will that fail?

Yes, it will. No, it won’t.

There’s no time for “maybe”s. No time for “I don’t know”s. Not even a “who cares” when it all comes down to the last shot.

By now, he hardly thinks about consequences. Just the position of his arms and the tension in his muscles right before the big moment.

SHIELD doesn’t like doubts—SHIELD likes results.

Clint let the arrow fly.

The explosion rocked the street and shattered the windows below. His ears were ringing wildly before they came back into focus.

Shouts—gunfire—doors slamming—tires squealing.

He’d squeezed his eyes shut from the inferno that blinded him five seconds longer than he wanted, but it turned out he didn’t need them. Clint knew those sounds better than anyone.

_Failure._

He gritted his teeth and ran, ignoring the limp he’d earned on his way inside the building as he lumbered into the dark stairwell. Somewhere outside, helicopter blades whirred to life and the beam of a large spotlight filtered through the windows. He froze in place, right before the pane in front of him.

“Come out where we can see you, son of a bitch!”

Breaking glass came from above, then a blast that shook the building and everything in it—including him. Clint hugged the wall, bracing himself against the dust and debris raining down everywhere.

_Shit._

He switched on his comm and spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “That evac Jeep ready?”

Coulson went straight to the point. _“What happened?”_

“I could give you all kinds of crap right now, but here’s the quick rundown: I missed.”

Clint started his descent again, trying not to think about the bullets peppering the walls several floors up as he went over everything Coulson could throw at him.

_Missing wasn’t an option._

_You said you were ready for this._

_I don’t have to tell you how pissed Fury will be._

But he wasn’t expecting what really came next.

_“It’s because of her.”_

Clint cursed.

_“Don’t dance around it, Barton. Fury knows—Hill knows—I know.”_

He yanked the handle on the door to the parking garage—hard enough to earn a sharp crack. “Yeah, tell me all of HQ knows now, too. You really think I give a single—”

_“Clint.”_

Sometimes he _hated_ Coulson and his reprimanding dad complex. All it took was one condescending word to get him to—

A man yelled and raised his pistol. Clint’s arrow pierced his chest faster than his finger could twitch, and with a flying leap he took cover beside the nearest car. Gunfire echoed through the parking garage.

_“Are you still functioning out there?”_

“Go to hell,” Clint hissed, taking down another man.

_“If you manage to escape the building alive, backup is already in position out in the streets. Get lost fast.”_

He picked off the two remaining guards and dashed for the Jeep.

_Already._

Meaning SHIELD agents had been on standby before he even set foot in the area. No—meaning Coulson had been _expecting_ him to fail this mission all along.

“Bastard.”

He threw the car into gear and backed out of the parking space before thundering through the exit. No sign of any more gunmen. So far so—

Bullets slammed into the back of the Jeep.

_Dammit._

“Where’s that backup, Coulson?”

_“Closing in now.”_

More cars joined the chase behind him—some SHIELD, some the enemy. He struggled to focus on the explosion of gunfire and screeching of brakes as he weaved through the late-night traffic. But Coulson knew his silence meant brooding and he naturally wasn’t having any of it.

_“Do you really think we trust you enough to go solo on these missions in the state you’re in? You’re unstable—off focus—a complete, hopeless mess.”_

Clint pulled up next to a gas station and ditched the Jeep, keeping his strides even as he disappeared into the closest alley.

To hell with Coulson—to hell with SHIELD.

And yet his better judgement hissed at him, telling him to admit it and get it out for good. He’d screwed himself a million times over trying to prove he could put personal issues aside and plunge back into the fast-paced inner workings of SHIELD. So far, all he’d manage to prove was how much his aim sucked because of it.

But his relentless half still held back. “I need time. Just give me—”

_“I’ve given you all you need. You’re coming back to HQ and you’re going to fix this—both of you. SHIELD needs spies and assassins. Not a ridiculously stubborn pair who argues like a married cou—”_

Clint ripped the earpiece out and tossed it behind him, shoving his hands into his pockets.

They wanted the two of them to talk it out? All right—that was just what they’d do. But _everyone_ knew the talking would turn into poisonous threats and eventually cold, blank stares—maybe even a few knives in the table.

Sure, they’d had arguments before. They’d even gotten unbearably pissed at each other, too. But _this_ was—

Clint stopped and dragged a hand down his face.

This was different.

* * *

Fury, without saying, was enraged with his comm-dumping stunt. Lectures and rants followed one after the other. Clint had heard them all before, of course, so he really had to work to stay awake. But since neither of them was in the best of moods, they ended up glaring at each other until Fury threatened to fuse the tech into his ear the next time he even _considered_ tossing out his only source of communication. Clint grudgingly agreed.

He almost thought the worst had passed when the door to the office opened and in strode Coulson, who no doubt had been listening in if Clint had to guess.

He laid a stack of papers down on the table. “We want you to talk to her.”

Clint had known it was coming but he sure as hell wasn’t welcoming it. Right away his first urge was to protest—only it’d been put off for about two months now. There weren’t any other excuses left to give. His second urge was to walk out on them—but the last time he tried that . . . Clint glanced at Fury’s one good eye, not so much as twitching as it stared back at him.

He decided to go with the easy way out.

“All right,” he relented. “I’ll see her first thing tom—”

“You’ll see her now,” Fury interrupted.

Clint pictured the blade of a knife slicing out of a dark apartment and thudding into his shoulder—possibly a little closer to center.

“You can’t be serious.” His gaze went from Coulson to Fury, but neither one looked willing to take it further. “She’s got to be asleep by now.”

They kept waiting.

“If she doesn’t like the wake-up call I’m sending her after you two,” Clint growled.

Coulson sighed, planting his hands on the desk. “Barton—your relationship needs to be repaired before your partnership can get back on track. I think you both know that.”

Clint didn’t ask what he meant by ‘relationship’. He knew what most people thought about the the two of them ever since he brought her in three years ago, no matter how untrue it was.

“So you’re insisting on this because of a failed partnership?” He folded his arms. “All right, then—I don’t need a partner. I just need training.”

Coulson raised his eyebrows. “That’s not what you said the day she came to SHIELD.”

“Fuck off.”

Fury nodded to Coulson, who then gestured at the stack of papers he brought in. “These are the documents of your successes since your partnership began three years prior. I’d have brought your failures since she went on leave to compare—if I could fit them through the door.”

“That’s bull and you know it,” Clint snapped.

“The point _is_ ,” Fury sighed, “something happened between you two and it needs to be fixed—partnership or no partnership, it’s obviously having a negative effect on you. Am I clear, agent?”

_Too clear._

In fact, Clint couldn’t think of anything else to say. With a shake of his head, he rose from his chair and turned to go.

“You’re doing the right thing, Clint.” Phil tried to assure him as he headed out.

He could have laughed. They really didn’t know, did they? They didn’t know anything.

* * *

Clint ended up pacing outside the door to her apartment, fists clenched. Memories of their last argument just wouldn’t leave him alone, no matter how hard he tried to fight them off.

_“Who gave you authority to look through those files?”_

_“No one.”_

_“Then what the hell were you—”_

_“I’m trying to figure out who you_ are _, Barton. You know more about me than almost anyone now.”_

_“And that gives you the right to rip open my past? You don’t know shit about what I’ve done to keep that—”_

_“Barton—Clint—let go. Someone once told me redemption is always a possibility. Now I know you were talking more about yourself than you were me.”_

_“Get out.”_

_“You still haven’t found it, have you?”_

_“You don’t understand. You of all people_ can’t _understand.”_

He dug the heels of his palms into his eyelids. The things he said—and the thing she’d done—couldn’t be taken back in one night. Not even in every night from the last two months. So what was he supposed to do? Apologizing wasn’t his thing—neither was it hers. Fighting swarm after swarm of terrorists, sure, but—

A scream pierced the air.

Without thinking, Clint rammed his shoulder into the door and crashed through it.

It hadn’t even been locked.

He scanned the nearly empty room in one sweep, breathing hard. The television had been switched on and it was displaying an old horror movie—the source of the shriek. Immediately, it felt completely wrong. As far as he knew she wasn’t into horror movies. Her life was already one.

_So what the hell?_

“Natasha.”

No response.

Clint stepped through the apartment in complete silence, although it made no difference with the noise he’d already made on entry. Soon he discovered something else—the entire place had been deserted. He checked every room twice, noting unwashed dishes in the sink, garbage in the wastebasket that had been sitting for at least a week, and articles of clothing strewn over the furniture or floor.

This wasn’t like her at all. She was spotless—immaculate—on time with everything.

Then he saw it—the book lying in the middle of the floor which his eyes had skimmed over when he first passed.

Clint crouched down and stared at the cover. It was plain—just a dark red—but with large, golden letters printed neatly at its center:

_REDEMPTION._


	2. DESERTED

“How long would you estimate she’s been gone?” Coulson asked.

Half a dozen SHIELD agents had been going through the apartment, searching for any signs of where Natasha Romanoff might have disappeared to while Fury threw a fit back at base, ordering a nationwide scan of security cameras that might have caught sight of her.

But Clint knew they wouldn’t find anything—because he was certain she didn’t want to be found—at least not by SHIELD.

Exhaling, he sank onto her couch. “A week—maybe more.”

Coulson glanced at the recently smashed television screen, then back at him. “I’m assuming you didn’t know.”

“What kind of ass do you take me for?”

He didn’t reply.

Shaking his head, Coulson’s hand went to his ear. “Got anything?”

Fury’s response was something frustrated and unhelpful from the look on his face.

“We’re still searching,” Coulson told him. “She may as well have discovered teleportation as far as I’m concerned. Right now there aren’t any clues to why she left and nothing looks packed away.”

He paused as Fury spoke for a while.

“It’s possible—but we all know Agent Romanoff doesn’t get kidnapped easily. There are no signs of struggle anywhere. We aren’t ruling it out, though.”

Clint stood and headed for the door. This was a complete waste of time.

Coulson looked up. “Barton—”

“We need to start looking,” Clint interrupted. “I don’t know why we’re still here.”

“We need to know _where_ to start looking.”

He stopped. “And you really think she’s going to give that to you?”

Coulson frowned and Clint knew he had him.

“I’m going to check her usual hangouts.” He turned to leave. “Find out when someone’s last seen her.”

Silence—then a tired sigh.

“She won’t be easy to find,” Coulson called after him.

“I’ve done it before.”

* * *

The book felt heavy in his lap as he drove deeper into the city. Natasha’s favorite bars weren’t too far away from each other. He just hoped she’d actually been spotted by some of her ‘acquaintances’ in the past week or two, or this would all be for nothing.

Clint was a hundred percent certain now that she’d left that clue for him and no one else—not even SHIELD. Its title was the one word they could both relate to—not to mention the way it fueled their last argument.

Then there was how he discovered the ten minute scene from that horror movie was rigged to start playing when a tiny camera recognized his face outside her door. Though Clint wasn’t really sure how she knew he’d be pacing around the hall for that long to hear the eventual scream. . . . That aside, he decided to smash the TV out of ‘rage’ to hide it from Coulson, then took the camera to keep it from being discovered by SHIELD—all of which were easy enough to do.

Fury and Coulson would no doubt be beyond furious if they found out what he was holding back from them, but at the moment he didn’t care. Natasha made it pretty clear that this information was for his eyes only—and for her sake he’d keep it that way.

His free hand ran over the smooth cover of the novel, tracing the gold letters. He’d skimmed through the first few pages after snatching it up. Some kind of romance story—which probably didn’t mean anything itself. Hell, of course it didn’t. Other than the title, though, he had no idea if there was more to the book she wanted to tell him. But once this long night ended he’d definitely read the first few chapters to see if she’d left any other hints.

Clint slowed to a stop about a block away from his destination and got out, bracing himself against the cold November air. Loud music blared from a few cars and buildings, and several groups hung around smoking or doing some illegal exchanges near the alleys. He ignored it all and headed to the brightest spot on the street—the local bar.

His clothes were made up of some old black jeans and a tattered leather jacket. Nothing too out of place. He definitely didn’t want any attention around these parts. Sure, he’d had plenty of experience with shitty bars in his darker days, but they weren’t times he wanted to relive.

When he finally pulled open the door, the hazy air almost knocked him over. It’d been a while since he’d gone in any place like this. He didn’t know how Natasha could take it. The day SHIELD brought him in and slapped some sense into his warped, carnivorous mind was the day he gave up this kind of life. The hair-raising, adrenaline-pumping assignments they sent him on were enough to drown out it all out—as well as other things.

Black Widow had been a different story. Of course she liked using them as her main hubs for information on criminal activity during missions, but there was something else she craved from them—distraction—something to take her away from her memories—her past.

The KGB and the Red Room—they’d used her as an assassin. He knew she tried not to relate her activities with SHIELD to them, but it wasn’t easy. The goals were different yet the techniques were similar—too similar. So she came here to empty her mind.

Clint took everything in with a calm breath and focused objective.

_Find Tasha._

Not many people noticed him as he passed. Too intoxicated and preoccupied with their friends.

He was searching for a description. A blond guy—scruffy hair—short, heavy build. Natasha sometimes mentioned her ‘acquaintances’ when she went looking for information or . . . something else. Described them, too, when she was feeling generous.

Clint didn’t need to ask her what she usually did with them on late nights like these. And fine, he wasn’t going to deny that he secretly disapproved. Although they were close and they trusted each other with their lives and she _was_ gorgeous . . . their partnership never really extended to anything like—

“I said that was the last round, honey!” A man staggered out of a dark room, half dressed. “Go fuck something else!”

Clint stopped—he matched Natasha’s depiction of him perfectly.

Before the guy had time to blink Clint hurled him up against the wall, hand at his throat.

“I think you know a friend of mine,” Clint hissed, drawing a knife. “Red hair, green eyes, perfect lips?”

_Damn—where’d that come from?_

“Uhh ye-yeah,” he sputtered, words slurring. “She’s better with a knife than you, though. But we’ve had some good fu—”

The blade went to his cheek. “When did you last see her?”

His eyes glazed over. “Monday . . . or maybe Tuesday . . . those are good days here. Said she wanted to know the quickest way criminals could be smuggled in and out of the country. Or maybe the quickest foreign smugglers being incriminated in the country. One of the two, my man.”

Clint rolled his eyes and tossed the bastard into the next room. A loud crash and screams followed.

He’d learned all he needed to know. Natasha had left the States. And he had a pretty good hunch where she’d gone.

_Redemption . . ._

* * *

After checking in with Fury and Coulson and telling them ‘he had no leads’, Clint hurried back to his apartment for a shower and a few hours of sleep, but booked a flight to Russia under another alias.

Half an hour passed as he packed a few belongings and sat on the bed to read a few pages of Natasha’s book. But his mind drifted elsewhere, dragging in doubts and other crap. What had she pulled him into? Was she that desperate to show him a part of her past that she needed to disappear and smuggle her way out for it to happen? Clint already knew a good amount of her history from what SHIELD had filed on the KGB and the Red Room Academy. He didn’t really want to know much more.

Well, there was also the possibility she was trying to teach him a lesson of some kind. Nat had always found the most creative ways to kick his ass whenever she wanted to tell him he was wrong.

His mouth tugged at the corners before he could stop himself.

And then he felt it . . . just how much he _missed_ her.

They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in two months. Natasha had withdrawn from the field, claiming she needed some time to cool off. Fury gave it to her without much argument. Three years of amazing success from STRIKE Team Delta had spoken for itself.

But Clint knew a half-assed excuse when he heard one. The truth was that she didn’t want to be anywhere _near_ him after that blowout of an argument they had. And it hurt—a lot.

He’d been lying to himself, of course. Saying over and over again that he could care less if she wanted to shut him out. It wasn’t as if they were inseparable or anything. Hell, they’d only known each other for three years.

Then that half-smirk of hers would come back to him. And the way her comments always tingled his nerves even in the middle of a high-stakes fight with the enemy.

Clint screwed his eyes shut, realizing his fingers had been clutching the book hard enough to dent the cover and pried them away. Sliding off the bed, he padded over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring numbly through the glass—out at the city—out at the world.

“Tasha . . .” he whispered. “Where are you?”


	3. SHADOWED

Clint scanned the snow-covered streets of Volgograd—formerly Stalingrad—Russia, Natasha’s hometown. The name had come up only once in their conversations, but he never forgot it.

“ _We have to mix with the crowd—look like bums. Got any tips?_ ”

“ _You’re talking to an orphaned street rat from Volgograd, Barton. I’m a natural._ ”

It had been filed away somewhere in the back of his mind. He was used to doing that with a lot of people he didn’t know well, but especially her. And Clint had no doubts she did the same with him.

Though honestly he’d been surprised to find out she spent her early years poor and alone on the streets. With her looks she could’ve easily passed for a kidnapped daughter from a rich Russian family. But that was pretty stupid on his part. Her deceiving appearance was exactly what made her a dangerous enemy back then.

Clint stood around in the alley of a tall building for a minute, his breath coming out in clouds of steam, then headed down the street. He didn’t even know what he was looking for. Her hints were anything but detailed and descriptive.

But following the scattered trail of the Black Widow again brought back a lot of memories—ones of frustration and determination. Months on the hardest mission he’d ever undertaken by SHIELD to track down the KGB’s most accomplished assassin—and rid the world of her blood-soaked ledger.

_Black Widow—female—red hair._

_“This is all you have on her?”_

_Fury looked him in the eye. “This is all anyone has on her.”_

_“So all we have to go on is this and wherever she was last spotted, You can’t be serious. Everyone here_ knows _how many of our agents she’s killed. Why the hell would you choose me to—”_

_“You know why. The plane leaves in an hour, agent.” Fury slapped a ticket on the table. “We’re not missing this opportunity. Make sure you’re on that flight.”_

A small tug on his sleeve pulled him from the memory and Clint cursed himself for losing focus.

He glanced over his shoulder to find a boy of about five holding up a piece of paper and grinning shyly. His winter clothes looked like rags—except for the brand-new jacket he wore.

_Paid-off little operatives . . . good call, Nat._

Clint took the paper and dug out his wallet to give the kid something in return, but he’d already vanished into the crowds. Frowning, he read the word Natasha had printed for him on the slip: _BELARUS_.

Clint tucked the paper into one of the pockets.

He had to keep moving. But this time to find transportation. Belarus, Russia only held one thing of interest to him:

_The Red Room._

* * *

_The night felt warm—and his view from the back of an old pick-up was adequate if anything. He could see through the window of the small house into the den, where Black Widow’s supposed target sat writing._

_Clint never took his eyes off the glass, arrow notched and ready—listening for a gunshot, watching for sudden movements. Wherever he spotted her, he’d fire without hesitation. Those were his orders._

_Then, without warning, an explosion went off to his right and Clint spun to watch a large ball of fire go up in the distance._

What the hell?

_His eyes flitted back to the window in seconds. But the target was now slumped against his desk with a knife in his back. No one else was in sight._

Shit.

_She knew—she knew she was being hunted._

_Clint leaped out of the truck and took off running in the direction of the house, night vision goggles focused on their highest setting._

_But before he could pick up anything something whistled past his ear, just barely missing his face. Reeling, he shot his arrow in the direction of the assault, but the thud that followed wasn’t the one he wanted to hear._

Not a body—just a tree.

_Clint kept up his pace for ten more minutes, even when no running figures appeared even once. She’d already disappeared into the night._

* * *

The Academy’s activities had been dissolved soon after the collapse of the Soviet Union. The KGB simply couldn’t risk being discovered with a kidnapping and assassin-training child program on its hands. The public would explode in outrage.

So it faded away as if it had never existed, leaving only its best agents still at large as a reminder of its influence—Natasha being on the top of the list, of course.

Clint trudged beside the fortress-like wall of the Red Room Academy, scouring his surroundings with the careful eye that’d given him his codename. Nothing popped out at him—not that he expected it to. This place was made to lock away secrets.

Then he saw the mark up ahead, just above the snow—a red speck on the wall.

Casting another glance behind him, Clint hurried forward, kneeling down to get a better look.

Just as he’d thought—the red hourglass: ⧗. Black Widow’s mark. The one he’d become so used to seeing every time he’d come up short on her trail—always to remind him he was too late.

Only now it meant he’d found a clue.

Clint dug through the snow, pushing it away with his gloved hands until he reached the ground. A patch of dead grass. He raised a fist and slammed it down, receiving a hollow thump in return.

An opening into the academy. So Natasha wanted him to see something inside—just what he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to do.

Shaking his head, he got to work clearing aside more snow until he could see a faint square outline, big enough for him to crawl through. Clint gritted his teeth and pried it open with his fingers, shoving the thing against the wall.

A ladder led down into the darkness.

_Hope this is worth it, Tasha._

He started the descent, testing his footing on the obviously worn rungs. Then he reached up and pulled the opening shut, sealing himself in the black void.

It took a minute for him to reach the bottom, still as dark and cold as ever. Clint dug around in his pack for his wristbow, strapped it to his arm, and switched on the light, sweeping the beam around the room in quick motions and illuminating every inch of the place.

It seemed to be a dirty concrete tunnel that ended at the wall with the ladder, but kept going for some distance the opposite way. He continued on, arm up, muscles tense, staying alert for any flashes of color or light.

Clint came to a door on the right side of the corridor, which he didn’t waste any time with. Then another appeared on his left—this one having the same red hourglass printed next to the doorknob.

He tried the handle—locked. Grunting, he pulled out a lockpick, jammed it in, and twisted it around for a bit.

_Come on . . ._

The lock unbolted and Clint thrust open the door, wristbow aimed and ready. But no female assassins with bloody knives stood waiting for him. He exhaled slowly and edged into the room, snapping his arm to the right.

A still decaying skeleton hung in chains on the wall, drawing a curse from him and forcing him backward—only to earn a sickening crunch from where his boot landed.

Spinning, he found another corpse lying in a painfully awkward position at his feet, still bolted to the ground with a clean sheet of paper in its hand.

Clint snatched it up and shined his light on the rest of the room, his breaths turning rapid. Every few feet or so there were more—each fastened to the wall or floor inhumanely, getting worse the farther he looked.

_What the hell!_

He tore his eyes back to the doorway, catching sight of the Russian letters on the rough concrete above it. And in red, farther up, was a translation hastily scrawled out from Natasha: _NAUGHTY GIRLS_.

Clint backed outside and slammed the door, dropping to his knees. For several long minutes, he just crouched there, inhaling and exhaling, trying to get his shaken nerves under control.

* * *

_He was beginning to think this was another false lead. No one on this train seemed to match her description in the slightest—and the target, a cranky old woman, was almost unbearable to listen to. Clint nearly wished she_ would _get killed._

_“And the mosquitos!” She crowed, waving a jeweled hand. “They were eating me alive! Disgusting little beasts!”_

_He figured she rode this train often, observing how the seats around her were all empty. While he, naturally, had been the one to make the mistake of taking the spot right next to her._

_Clint rubbed a tired hand down his face as the train finally crawled to a halt and several passengers stood up to get off._

_“Oh, I hate this stop.” The woman griped. “Why don’t they just . . . just . . .”_

_She trailed off quietly, her head lolling forward. He almost exhaled out loud. The old woman had actually fallen asleep._

_Then he spotted the tiny dart protruding from her neck._

_Clint jumped to his feet as the last person, a woman stuffing something into her trench coat, exited the train._

_He dashed after her, yanking a mini-crossbow from his pocket. The assassin was already running when he made it outside, twisting past several people as she darted down the length of the train._

_Clint raised his weapon and fired. But it barely missed her dyed blond hair as she dove into the nearest set of doors._

Nimble little bitch.

_He followed, sliding as he made it to the opening and narrowly avoiding the flashing blade of a knife. Then his arm came up and grabbed her wrist, hurling her up and over him._

_But somehow, in mid-air, she flipped and landed squarely on her feet, slamming him onto his stomach._

Oh, shit.

_Clint rolled and found the knife jammed into the stone floor next him just moments later. Clenching his teeth, he threw out a leg and swept her off her feet, leaping up in the same instant she did—only now he had his crossbow pointed right at her face._

_Clint had seconds to comprehend the stunning green eyes staring back at him as he heaved in lungfuls of air._

_Those eyes . . . there was something—_

Shoot her!

_The assassin’s boot slammed into his abdomen. His bolt went off wildly into the air and he tumbled into the train—just as the doors slid shut._

_Cursing, Clint picked himself up, watching her flash a smile through the windows before melting seamlessly into the crowd._

* * *

He knew he couldn’t stay angry at Natasha for that crap at the academy. It was her way of opening up, sick as it seemed. And she was the one had to endure seeing those chained-up girls quite a few times when she was still in training, he could guess. Natasha probably didn’t get anywhere close to something deserving discipline that severe, but he had a feeling walking into that room played a big part in it.

Clint closed the book and leaned back against the headboard, arm slung over one knee as he stared into space.

He was still as distracted as ever, but he’d gotten some reading done. _Redemption_ was the story of a man who’d ran off with another woman only to find out he was a complete ass for doing it, and then he had to live the rest of his life knowing that his wife would never want him back no matter how hard he tried to convince her that he still loved her—or some other bullshit like that.

All right, the book wasn’t a bad read in itself, but the story . . . well, it just wasn’t on his list of things he considered worthy of his time—for a number of reasons.

Then again . . . was that why she'd chosen it? Was she trying to insinuate that after all this time he still couldn’t—

_No._

Clint shoved down the memory that tried to resurface and massaged his forehead with his knuckles. All this guesswork frustrated him. Natasha apparently planned to feed the whole thing to him piece by piece. And it wasn’t a very quick process. Though he had to admit it also depended on how fast he’d be able to connect the dots.

Clint tugged the paper from his pocket and glared at it. Unlike the last one she’d left him, this note was anything but clear and obvious. The meaning of the series of numbers and dashes jotted down in the center had eluded him so far.

Dates? SHIELD codes? The first was too broad—the second too confidential.

_So what . . ._

His eyes fell on the book again and he could have stabbed himself for being so dense. Clint flipped through the pages to each number, finding the beginning of a chapter at every one. So numbers that symbolized other numbers . . . just like Natasha to be so confusing. But the last one led him to a page with one word underlined in red: _hospital_.

Climbing off the bed, he powered on his laptop to type the new information into a search engine. The first result revealed a news story of a hospital fire that happened years ago, though not too far from where he was staying.

Clint started packing up. He could sleep later. Each of these hints brought him a little closer to Tasha . . . or her past, rather. He just hoped there were no skeletons to greet him for this one.


	4. SHOULDERED

His Russian wasn’t what it used to be, but he didn’t need any of it to know what the plaque was for.

Street lamps illuminated the snow-covered empty lot that had never seen construction since the fire. The rubble had obviously been cleared away, but it left a gaping space that the people living here no doubt felt whenever they passed by.

And there was only one word on the plaque he could translate with confidence: _remember_.

Clint kicked at the snow. Natasha remembered—she remembered that she’d been here—remembered that she was the one responsible for the fire—for the deaths of the patients she’d been ordered to kill.

He swore under his breath. And that was just it. She’d been _ordered_ , dammit. She knew as well as anyone that she didn’t make the call. She’d been following commands mindlessly, being a good little girl by Red Room standards, then KGB standards. Clint wasn’t lucky enough to have that kind of excuse. He wasn’t lucky enough to have anything.

Shutting it all out, he bent down and reached behind the sign to feel along the back of it, gloved fingers closing around a slip of plastic. He drew it out and gave it a quick once-over before shoving it in his pocket.

No use wasting time in this dim light. He had to get somewhere warmer and brighter. Then he could figure out his next destination.

Clint walked off, knowing full-well there wasn’t any reason to look back. But he felt a chill somewhere in his gut that made him turn.

There, in the middle of the empty lot, huddled the figure of a small girl staring back at him. The moment he blinked she was gone.

* * *

_The past few weeks went by quicker than anything. Sometimes catching glimpses of Black Widow—sometimes not at all. Each instance finding her target done away with carefully and cleanly—or not so much._

_But this time SHIELD had sent him information faster than they ever had. Clint wouldn’t waste the opportunity._

_His breathing quiet and level, he crouched behind the door of a small closet, peering through the crack into a dark room illuminated only by a night-light next to the bed. Why the KGB would order the death of a six-year-old girl was beyond him. But on his watch it wouldn’t happen—not after all those devastating failures._

_Minutes later, when the window slid open, he almost didn’t hear it. It had been oiled with a steady hand, but hoisted up with even steadier ones. And then the assassin slipped into the room, knife flashing in her hand._

_He threw open the door and before he knew it, all that built-up fury from observing every one of her successes spilled out of him. “Were monsters like you ever her age?”_

_The blade left her fingers before the words left his mouth. But he knocked it aside in an expertly timed swing, letting it sink into the wall with a thump._

_He expected her to finish the kill and fly—instead she charged him. Yet it seemed off-balance now—just a fraction of uncontrolled energy. It was enough for him to pin her to the floor, heaving all of his body weight onto her, feeling the coil of a pure lethal weapon fighting against him._

_“No,” he realized, eyes locking on those pools of green. “You were created.”_

_Black Widow went still. Something resembling shock flooded his nerves at her reaction. Had she actually_ felt _something?_

_It disappeared as soon as he lost focus. She tore out of his grip and practically dove out the window, swinging down a telephone pole to the ground. Scrambling up, Clint rushed to the opening and watched in a daze as she fled into the night._

* * *

“Coulson,” he muttered into the pay phone as soon as he answered.

_“Where the hell have you been?”_

Clint took a breath. “Where do you think?”

_“A straight answer might have saved your ass—it still could.”_

Sighing, he shifted his gaze out to the snow-covered square. How was he going to put this . . . ?

“Look,” he started. “I’m on Natasha’s trail, but I’m going to need some information. Could you—”

 _“Clint,”_ the hesitation on the other end stopped him in his tracks. _“We’re considering the possibility that Natasha might be—”_

“What?” Clint cut him off. He suddenly knew what he was saying. “No, you’ve got it completely wrong.”

_“Meaning?”_

He ran a hand down his face. Well, now he _had_ to tell him.

“Okay, so Natasha wants to show me something—emphasis on me. Shit went down in that last fight we had, and well . . . I guess this is one of the ways she does things—disappearing, but giving me small clues a little at a time.”

Clint winced. When it came out like that, even he had to admit it sounded pathetic.

 _“Right . . .”_ came Coulson’s reassuring response. A frustrated exhale went next. _“All right, Barton. I know there’s truth to this, but the Council’s caught wind of Romanoff’s disappearance. They’re not happy—which means none of us are.”_

The World Security Council? He cursed himself for letting it slip his mind. The only thing they saw was the suspicious disappearance of a former KGB operative—who now knew quite a few SHIELD secrets.

_Nat, what have you done?_

“Coulson, she’s been with us for three _years_ ,” he growled.

 _“I know that,”_ Phil snapped. _“But to them that only makes it worse. They don’t accept feelings or emotional bonds for excuses.”_

He felt a sharp jab in his chest. “And just what the hell does _that_ —”

 _“Find her, Barton!”_ His voice rose an octave over the phone—definitely pissed. _“I’d give it a week before they order half the agents out on a global search. And it isn’t going to be a search and rescue.”_

“All right, all right,” Clint fought to keep his voice calm through the hammering in his ribs. “Just give me whatever you have on Drakov’s daughter. It’s my latest lead.”

The pause lasted a second too long. _“I’ll do what I can.”_

With that, the connection broke and he put the receiver back in its place, feeling the weight of his exhaustion as well as the new consequences of this drawn out guessing game.

* * *

_The noise in the alley drew him out of his shelter. It had been the third in the past five minutes—too many to ignore._

_But the blur of movement he caught sight of in the darkness turned out to be a cat, darting out from behind a trash can to flash past his legs. Shaking his head at his paranoia, he turned to shuffle back inside._

_Then a cord sliced into view, slamming into his hand and hurling the bow from his grasp._

What the—

_Clint twisted, lunging for his knife with his free hand, but another rope caught him by the wrist, suspending both arms in the air as he stood there in the middle of the alley, completely vulnerable._

_So he’d become the hunted now. Clint had been expecting it much sooner than this. He only wondered why she’d waited so long to strike._

_Minutes dragged into an hour—one of her best tactics. Any other target would have fallen to pieces from the strain and sheer terror of what was coming. But he’d played this game before—on both ends._

_Suddenly she was behind him, hissing in his ear. “What do you really want?”_

_Clint didn’t respond as she circled around, careful and catlike. Her scent was strong—purposely strong. And even in the darkness he could see the curves of her form._

Shit. _He knew where this was going._

_She slid a hand across the back of his neck as the other crawled up his shirt, her fingers setting every nerve on fire. Clint fought down his rising pulse, reminding himself of all the less than pleasant things those hands were capable of._

_“Is_ this _what you want?”_

_Her mouth cut into him, tearing his breath away. And when she broke the kiss he was panting hard—but he still managed to laugh in her face._

_“That’s part of the job, huh? The name?” Clint gasped out. “Fucking your victims then slitting their throats?”_

_In a flash of movement she unsheathed her blade and buried it deep in his shoulder. He clenched his teeth against the screaming pain._

_“That night at the train station and that night in the girl’s bedroom. You could have shot me but you didn’t,” she growled. “Why?”_

_“It’s not because I want to take a murdering slut to bed if that’s what you’re asking.”_

_She gave the handle a sharp twist, drawing a strangled cry from him. “So what_ do _you want?”_

_Clint blinked sweat from his eyes as the pain roared in his ears. “To tell you the truth . . . I don’t know myself.”_

_The alley began to spiral around him._

_“Just tell Hannah I’m sorry . . .” he whispered. “Tell her I should’ve been there. . . .”_

_“Go to hell,” she snarled._

_He blacked out._

* * *

The chime of his inbox woke him and he tossed aside the blankets. The light from the glowing laptop screen could have blinded him, but it didn’t matter—Coulson had come through with the information he needed, like he always did.

Throwing on a shirt and jacket, Clint packed up and headed for the checkout desk. He was on a deadline now. Finding Natasha was no longer just a priority—it was an order.

The rental car sat where he’d left it. Clint tossed his stuff in the trunk and started the engine with a sputtering cough, hoping it would last the road trip he was about to use it for.

Things were probably coming apart at the seams back at SHIELD HQ. He could see it now. Fury storming the halls barking orders, Coulson and Hill scouring past files, and every agent on high alert for one ex-KGB assassin ‘gone rogue’.

Clint’s fists tightened on the steering wheel. When Natasha wanted things to go awry . . . hell did they ever.

The drive lasted half a day. It was late afternoon by the time he began his ascent to the roof of the tallest building in the area. And when he stepped outside the bitter wind sliced into his hair and clothes.

So this was the place—where Black Widow had managed to take off with a hang glider on a blustery night—where she’d sailed four blocks to the hotel terrace of Drakov’s daughter as she danced with her fiancé the day before their wedding.

And shot her in the back.

He moved to the edge to stare down at the streets below. It’d been kept under wraps from most people, but not from SHIELD. In fact, if the documents were to be believed—and anything sent by Coulson was—this feat had been the very thing that placed her on the ladder to the top.

He blew out a frustrated exhale. Why was she going through with this? What was there to know? What was there to learn? Three years ago he’d been coming up short on her trail, watching as target after target fell to her bullets and blades. If anyone knew what she’d done—what she _could do_ —Clint did.

So why, dammit, _why_?

When he finally turned back he saw it—faint traces in the snow which had nearly been filled in. Natasha was definitely cutting it closer every time.

Pulling out a pad, he jotted everything down, then stuffed it back in his pocket. A little more research and then on to the next location. Clint just wished he knew how many pieces were left in this game—and if he could finish it all in only a week.

He spared one last look around and headed for the stairs.


End file.
